


This Drunken Semaphore

by KrisLaughs



Category: Being Human, Being Human (US/Canada)
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:25:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisLaughs/pseuds/KrisLaughs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josh has a surprise. Aidan is grateful-- until he remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Drunken Semaphore

**Author's Note:**

> I was in the mood to celebrate happy boys. This happened anyway.
> 
> Title is from lyrics of Snow Patrol, _Called out in the Dark_ , which I frequently have stuck in my head.

Sometimes he catches it in a flash of Josh's too-white teeth, in a raised eyebrow or knowing grin, the memories only grown stronger with age, with hunger. It's some perverse twist that the longer he goes without feeding, the sharper his ghosts come into focus; Bishop, Rebecca, Henry, Celine-- taunting him with escape to the past even as his temples pound and his gut twists with thirst through the agony of the present. 

Tonight Josh looks so pleased with himself, home from the day shift and smiling like the cat who got the canary, it only adds to the similarities between him and the kid Henry was before he turned. "I ever tell you that you remind me of someone?" Aidan croaks.

"Nope." Josh answers absently as he turns and starts to rummage through his backpack. "Who?"

"His name was.. I guess that's not important anymore."

"Yeah? So, guess what I discovered?"

Aidan doesn't press the change of subject or try to hide the hoarse tones in his voice. "What?"

"That no one ever pays attention to orderlies, but that's not the good part. Ellis was busy checking his email or something when a GSW came in and apparently decided he doesn't like always being the one who has to run for more O-neg, so…" Josh holds up something small, thin, and shiny. "Decided to hand out keys to plasma storage, for anyone willing to hustle."

He reaches back into his bag and lifts out a few pints of hospital blood. 

"I don’t mean it like that. I managed to get these out. I know you've been trying so hard and I know it wasn't easy. So. Celebrate? I'll even warm it up." He's halfway to the kitchen before Aidan manages a heartfelt thank you. 

Aidan can smell the blood from here, old and dead and just a little bit wonderful. He stumbles into the kitchen and the world comes into sharper focus, the afternoon sun, the dirty dishes in the sink, the threadbare patch on the back of Josh’s jeans. Josh is turned towards the microwave, watching the illuminated numbers ticking down. It’s all Aidan can do not to grab the empty bag and lick it out like some dog waiting for table scraps—no offence to present company intended.

The buzzer sounds, and he’s moving faster than he has in days, a moment to cross the room, blink of a bloodshot eye. Josh tenses as he feels Aidan stop behind him, left hand on the small of Josh’s back, right closed over the warm mug in his hand.

“Hungry, are we?” Josh turns as Aidan lifts the cup to his mouth. Fangs threaten to pierce his lower lip. 

He downs it so fast, he might’ve even slurped. Yeah, definitely a slurp. Josh smiles at him fondly, and he’s a little amazed how disgust with his eating habits had evolved into… this. Whatever it is. He grabs the second bag without warming it, and pierces the plastic, pulling every drop into him. It’s probably a good thing he’s drinking too quickly to really taste it.

“Woah. Slow down.” Josh’s hand steadies him. “It’s been a while since you’ve had anything at all, remember?”

And, yes of course he remembers. Every agonizing minute. His heart is pounding with the infusion of fresh blood, his cheeks feel flushed, almost human. A growl rises low in his chest. _Thank you_ is what he means, but he’s still one step shy of civilization. 

“Mmmm--ph,” is what finally comes out, but his words are smothered by Josh’s mouth against his, Josh’s tongue, unafraid, brushing the tips of his fangs, Josh’s arms around his back.

Josh pulls away, making a face at the taste of lunch. Aidan moves in to lick the stolen drop off his lips.

There's nothing quite like the punch-drunk feeling of new blood coursing through him when—when he was wandering through a desert, thirsty and drained and alone. Colors are brighter, joy and relief wash over him in waves. For the moment he's drinking, it's like his memories of starvation don't exist, like they fade to half-forgotten dreams. 

"Josh," he gasps as they fall up the stairs, stumbling towards his bedroom, dancing on the edge of the night. 

"If I'd known you'd be this grateful, I totally would've snuck in there weeks ago." He's pulling Aidan's shirt up over his back as Aidan struggles with the button on the top of his jeans.

They're a mess of clothing and breathless kisses and the whisper of skin on skin, and why are there so many buttons this century. "You could've been in there _weeks_ ago?"

"No, of course not." Josh manages to rip his own shirt over his shoulders as he tumbles onto Aidan onto the bed. "Ellis, remember. Email."

"Thank god for lazy staff supervisors."

Josh's skin is warm against his chest, his hips fit just into the curves of Aidan's body. Aidan rolls and bucks beneath him, fangs nipping the edge of his lips. Josh runs his tongue over them and closes his hands around Aidan's shoulders. 

In a frantic rush of knees and arms and arched back-desire, they maneuver themselves back to the center of the bed. The sheets are rough under Aidan's cheeks.

Rough like the coffin that—

_Oh, hell_

He opens his eyes blearily. There's no fresh blood humming through him, no Josh wrapped between his legs, just mildewing silk and too-solid oak and six feet of frozen earth between his icy bones and the frozen sky. 

All he can smell is the dirt and the things that live and crawl beneath it.

 _Josh_.

He screams into the dark.


End file.
